


dreamin' with the lights on

by getmean



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Time, Friends to Lovers, LOCKDOWN fic we going full covid brainworms here, M/M, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:35:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23621662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getmean/pseuds/getmean
Summary: “You’re driving me insane,” Eugene tells him, as he emerges from his bedroom to snatch his clean socks off the laundry rack. Snafu grins at him, elbows to the back of the couch now so he can watch Eugene stalk around. “Completely insane, Snafu.”“If you stay maybe it’ll come toLord of the Flieslevels of chaos and you’ll get to kill me,” Snafu says, resting his chin on his hands, eyes bright as they follow Eugene.
Relationships: Merriell "Snafu" Shelton/Eugene Sledge
Comments: 26
Kudos: 46





	dreamin' with the lights on

While Eugene packs, Snafu spends his time glued to the news.

“It can live on cardboard, you know?” he says, eyes bug-wide and bloodshot. Eugene walks across his line of view to turn the TV off, to which Snafu lets out a cry of disgust. “Hey!”

“You’re watchin’ too much news,” he mutters, pacing back through to the kitchenette and the open cabinets waiting for him to fill. “It’s fuckin’ with you.”

“Everything fucks with me,” Snafu reasons, slumping back into the sofa and into the screen of his phone. Eugene fights the urge to pluck it from his hands.

“You’re actin’ crazy.”

Snafu snorts. “And you’re not actin’ crazy enough.” His gaze focuses in on Eugene, stood stupid and still at the kitchen counter. Eyes big and green and red from the fucking pot he won’t stop smoking, like it’s doing anything to keep him from getting paranoid. “You’ve got a heart murmur,” Snafu reminds him, and Eugene crosses the room to smack the back of his head.

“Fuck off,” he treats him to. “What the fuck, Snaf?”

“I’m just sayin’!” he cries, sitting up from his slump in the sofa to watch Eugene stalk through to his bedroom. “What, a man can’t just say shit anymore?”

Eugene takes a deep, steadying breath, clenching his fists at his side for a moment, and then releases them. The light in his bedroom is low, and warm, the sounds of the street outside through the open window. Snafu’s expectant silence from the living room. 

“It’s got nothin’ to do with my heart,” he calls back. “Besides, my mom wants me home. You ever tried tellin’ her no?” As he talks, he pulls a pair of jeans from his dresser, flinging them behind him onto the bed to join the handful of clothes he’d already plucked from his wardrobe. A couple t-shirts follow, a balled-up sweater he knows he won’t need in Alabama, but he’s always been a just-in-case packer. 

“I think you need to stay put and get stoned with me,” Snafu says. If Eugene shuffles back a few steps he can see Snafu through his bedroom doorway, chin to his chest, buried in his phone still. Eugene rolls his eyes, and goes back to pulling things out to take with him. 

“Smoking weed ain’t gonna do shit to keep your lungs healthy,” Eugene snaps. He hears Snafu scoff from the next room.

“Then don’t smoke it, Jesus!” Silence, the sounds of Snafu shifting on the couch. “Fuck, we’ll make brownies, I dunno.” 

“You’re driving me insane,” Eugene tells him, as he emerges from his bedroom to snatch his clean socks off the laundry rack. Snafu grins at him, elbows to the back of the couch now so he can watch Eugene stalk around. “Completely insane, Snafu.”

“If you stay maybe it’ll come to _Lord of the Flies_ levels of chaos and you’ll get to kill me,” Snafu says, resting his chin on his hands, eyes bright as they follow Eugene. 

Eugene, as much as he doesn’t want to give Snafu the satisfaction, laughs. “You know, that sounds pretty good right now.”

Snafu seems to be getting into this fiction now. “Yeah!” he cries, “Yeah, and you know if I’m sick I’m gonna need someone to put me outta my misery.”

Eugene claps a hand over his eyes, grinning. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, just as Snafu’s hand catches at his wrist as he passes by, too close to the sofa, and holds him there. 

“C’mon,” he murmurs, full mouth in an exaggerated pout. “It’ll be fun. We can panic buy together.”

Eugene hesitates, which is a dangerous thing to do when Snafu is trying to get you to do something nobody but Snafu wants to do. The moment you hesitate, it’s over. Even as Eugene stands there with Snafu’s sweaty palm at his wrist, musing his options, he knows Snafu’s already won. Snafu knows it too, judging by the smirk that’s splitting his face. 

“You’re driving me insane,” Eugene says again, softer, and Snafu takes his hand from Eugene’s wrist to pump his fist half-heartedly in the air.

“Yes, I knew it.” He falls back against the sofa cushions, upside down with his holey socks reaching to poke at Eugene’s stomach. Eugene bats him away, standing there with his balled up socks in his hands, trying to work out exactly when he said _yes_. “You’re safer here anyway,” Snafu adds, thumb up to his mouth as he chews at a hangnail. “Sure your parents place is remote but you know what ain’t?” He waits. Eugene just turns away to toss his socks through the doorway of his bedroom. Snafu nods. “That’s right. A plane.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Eugene says, tiredly, but Snafu is already reaching for the remote again now that he’s gotten his way. Eugene watches the back of his head for a minute, and then hangs his own and goes to his bedroom to call his mom. 

The hesitancy doesn’t lie in whether Eugene thinks he’s gonna get sick at some point between San Francisco International and his parents’ house in Mobile. He doesn’t feel half as urgently about this as Snafu seems to, but he’s always been a hypochondriac so it’s not really news. No, what Eugene feels a little urgent about is Snafu being left to his own devices here; left to rattle around the apartment with nobody around as buffer for him. That’s what has Eugene hesitating. Snafu, with no family and nobody to go be around, but Eugene and their handful of friends, all of which have already jumped ship back to their various home states. Eugene would feel too guilty about going back to Alabama to get spoiled by his mom for however long this thing is gonna take to blow over, while Snafu sits alone in their apartment, smoking weed and scrolling the news on his phone.

So here he is, phone tucked between shoulder and ear as he folds the clothes he’d just pulled from his drawers, fielding his mom’s misgivings. 

“Eugene, we’d feel much safer havin’ you home,” she’s saying, and Eugene can hear his dad talking in the background but can’t make out his words. “And what about money?”

“I can tutor over the phone, or Skype,” Eugene mumbles, lowering his newly folded clothes back into the drawer. “And classes are basically finished so there’s nothing going on. There’s nothin’ to worry ‘bout except me gettin’ bored, Ma.”

She’s silent. In the background, Eugene can hear his dad say, “— tell him I’ll drive up!” before his mom shushes him.

“Don’t come get me,” Eugene warns. “Mom, I’m serious.” He can imagine it now, both his pushing-seventy parents on the road to come kidnap him. “I’m gonna stay here with Merriell, we’ll just like, watch movies and eat pasta every night.”

“I don’t know…” his mom murmurs, and Eugene sighs. A lie can’t hurt, right? He wants to get off the phone. It sounds like Snafu has settled on a movie in the next room instead of the incessant news, and now that Eugene knows he’s staying he’s feeling pretty itchy about going out and getting food. If Snafu’s stoned enough to turn off the news for a minute, maybe he’s stoned enough to come push the cart at the grocery store. 

“Maybe I’ll come up in a few weeks,” he says, deciding on the lie. “Right now work is just busy, and you know the wifi at home sucks.”

That placates her enough for Eugene to wheedle a goodbye from her, and then he’s tossing Snafu’s jacket over his prone figure on the couch, and coaxing him up and into the land of the living. 

“Do you know what we need?” Snafu asks, slow, making a meal out of his shoelaces as he tries to get them tied. Eugene stands there and watches him, because he might do many things for Snafu but tying his fucking laces is not one of them.

“Have you been grocery shopping?” Eugene asks, leaving behind the show Snafu is treating him to go peer into the fridge, and then the freezer. Not a lot to offer; condiments, an uncorked and half-finished bottle of wine, butter, cheese, a few frozen tupperwares of lasagne. 

“No,” Snafu mumbles, and then straightens up. He’s frowning, mouth open and eyes glazed as he stares off into the distance for a second, before snapping his attention to Eugene with an almost frightening alertness. “Should we panic-buy weed?”

Eugene considers it, jangling his car keys in his hand. “Maybe.”

———

Snafu balances a bag of chips on the handle of the shopping cart, and eats out of it as they walk around, Eugene with a list in hand and Snafu talking through a mouthful of chips about every little thought that flits through his mind. Why the chocolate poptarts are better than the strawberry ones, and how strawberry ice cream is better than chocolate. The approximate calorie content of one chip. The inherent ways in which the Mario Kart from the nineties is better than the one they brought out recently. Eugene tunes him out after the second pass through the shop turns up barely anything in their cart.

“I feel like there’s no food here,” Eugene mutters, talking over him. He pokes at a box of Bran Flakes, heavily considering it just for the comfort of putting something in the cart and then in the cupboard at home. “Nothin’ good anyway.”

“We’re two weeks out from looting,” Snafu says, sagely, and then, “Looks like my poor-person survival skills are gonna come into play.”

“They’ve _been_ in play, Snaf.”

Snafu shrugs, his chips finished, leaning his forearms on the handle instead. “Listen, can’t go wrong with a pound of rice, some chicken on the bone, and some oatmeal.”

Eugene glances at him, disgusted. “All together?” 

Snafu kisses his teeth, gives him a sidelong look that’d be withering if his eyes weren’t all heavy and stoned. “Don’t be stupid.” 

They get all that, plus a handful of other basics that Eugene manages to hunt down and some fresh stuff too. Snafu takes the cart down the liquor aisle, Eugene trailing behind him with his nose in his list, trying to work out what he can substitute for the more expensive stuff and what he can’t. It’s all that’s left on the shelves. If he and Snafu were made of money maybe they’d have a shot.

“Hey, Gene, get that,” Snafu says, pointing to the lower shelf like he doesn’t have two hands and could get it himself. Eugene rolls his eyes but bends down anyway, hands hovering over the bottles as Snafu goes, “Yeah, no, the one — the tequila, Gene, the fifteen-dollar one — no, _that_ one.”

“Tequila?” Eugene asks, settling it in amongst the groceries. “What is this, spring break?” 

Snafu shakes his head at him. “Don’t joke about that. Those kids are fucked.” Then he turns, making for the checkouts with Eugene standing still in the aisle, perplexed.

“They — who?” he calls, and when Snafu doesn’t slow, he sighs, and adds, “Snafu, wait up.”

One stop to the dispensary later, he and Snafu are stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen sink, scrubbing their hands. Snafu whistles ‘happy birthday’ under his breath. So close that Eugene is reminded of that little height difference between them, so close he can smell his clothes, his hair. Eugene gives him a sidelong look.

“Have you been using my shampoo?” 

Snafu sticks his hands under the running water, rinsing the suds off, and then grabs at Eugene’s limp, waiting hands, and rinses them off for him too. “I ran outta my own,” he says, absently, rubbing at Eugene’s palms with his thumbs. 

Eugene, speechless, can only watch. Snafu’s big, square hands almost envelop his own; almost ridiculously too big on the ends of his skinny arms. Then Snafu’s eyes turn up to him, and he’s passing Eugene a dishcloth, saying, “Is that okay?”

“It smells nice on you,” Eugene manages, rubbing at his hands with the cloth as he watches Snafu cross to the kitchen table where their groceries sit. He starts to pull them from the paper bags, and for a moment the only sounds are the rustling of the bags, the hum and whirr of the freezer fan. Eugene keeps opening his mouth to say something, and then closing it. 

“I think you’re biased,” Snafu says, finally. Eugene swallows against the strange feeling in his throat, and nods to himself. 

“That’d make sense,” he mutters. More silence. Snafu is loading their dry goods into the cupboards, a frown on his face as he glances at Eugene, like he doesn’t even know why Eugene would be acting weird. “Because it’s my shampoo, I mean,” Eugene adds, and Snafu snorts, frown deepening. 

“Are you okay?”

Eugene glances away and then back. Snafu’s big dopey eyes on him, a bag of flour in his hand. Grinning, bemused. “You just washed my hands for me?” he says, and for some reason it comes out a question. “Like a toddler?”

Snafu laughs, and turns away to put the flour in the cupboard. “You were waitin’, just did it on reflex.” When he turns back, he’s still grinning, something playful in his expression. “What?”

“Nothin’,” Eugene sputters, and then crosses the room to help Snafu unload their shopping bags. They say no more of it, though Snafu’s smile doesn’t fade for a little while, and Eugene keeps pressing his fingers into his palms at the memory of it. 

There’s something sticking in his throat, something that only grows when Snafu puts a hand to Eugene’s waist later, squeezing past him to get to the fridge. Their kitchen is narrow, open plan; most of the space taken up by the large sofa and the coffee table, and it means squeezing past the sofa and whoever’s standing at the stove whenever you’ve gotta get by. It means he’s used to being in close quarters with Snafu, they share a bathroom for God’s sake. But something about the hand-washing thing earlier paired with this innocuous, perfunctory brush of Snafu’s big hand to Eugene’s waist has Eugene pressing himself against the stove when Snafu passes by to head back to the sofa, so as not to be touched.

Snafu doesn’t notice. He’d eaten a grilled cheese for dinner, and then another one, and had smoked half a bowl that Eugene had wavered on whether he’d join in on. He had, in the end, and it had only served to make him more highly strung. Snafu, on the other hand, seems to be having none of the same reactions as Eugene. So chilled out he’s practically melted all over the sofa cushions, changed from his day clothes earlier into a wool sweater that Eugene had shrunk to near child-sized in the wash a year ago, and a pair of grey sweats. Eugene can’t make eye contact with any inch of him. 

“You wanna watch a movie?” Snafu asks, lying there with his hands on his chest and his feet up on the arm of the sofa. Eyes on the TV even as he adds, “Need a break from the news.”

“Yeah,” Eugene mutters. “I bet you do.” And Snafu snorts. 

“Nothin’ wrong with keeping up with what’s happening.” Then the sound of him shifting on the sofa. Eugene keeps his eyes on the pot of pasta he’s stirring. “C’mon, Netflix or wanna find whatever’s on TV?”

Trying to keep his voice light, Eugene says, “I think I’m gonna turn in after I eat, actually.” He always feels like every emotion he has bleeds through in his voice when he’s stoned. Like he’s got none of the usual filter, like his face just becomes transparent, so Snafu can sit there and read every thought running through his head like ticker tape. He turns the hob off. Drains the pasta.

Snafu says, “You’re so boring.”

“Pace yourself,” Eugene reminds him, stirring butter into his pasta followed by a generous amount of black pepper and salt. “If you’re bored on day one with me then you ain’t gonna do well.”

“It’s hardly day one,” Snafu murmurs, and when Eugene finally looks to him he’s half-upright and flipping through channels, pink-cheeked from the warmth of the room. 

He eats his dinner at the table, washes the dishes and then escapes to his bedroom. In the next room he can hear an action movie on TV; loud explosions and the rattling of gunfire. He guesses Snafu is probably asleep, though it’s not late by any stretch of the imagination. Eugene is beginning to feel less stoned. He sits at his desk and readies work for tomorrow’s online tutoring, and then slips from his room to go wash up for bed.

Snafu is still on the sofa, the room dark but flickering with the light from the TV. Blue, green, black, orange. Snafu is lit by it, just the curve of his profile, soft in sleep. That crease between his eyebrows that this whole mess of a quarantine has brought out in him gone. Eugene’s eyes skip from the dark hair on his belly, visible past the risen-up and shrunken-small hem of his sweater, to his hands, delicate and large and laid on his chest like he’s dead. His mouth, the pout of it fuller and more obvious now it’s open. 

Eugene fights the urge to touch his hair, and instead skirts the sofa to turn the TV off. Blackness. The room rings with the sudden silence. 

He blinks, then picks his way back down the hall to the bathroom, leaving Snafu to the sofa. He’s not a good sleeper, to Eugene loathes to wake him just to transfer him to another soft, flat surface to sleep on. He doesn’t like to wake at two a.m to the sweet smell of weed in the apartment, to the sound of the TV playing on low. Lights on under his bedroom door. Just knowing that Snafu is up and restless and alone hurts a little. Eugene doesn’t know why, but it does. 

So he leaves him. Brushes his teeth and examines himself in the mirror, tilting his head this way and that as he tries to imagine himself on the other end of all this. Post-lockdown. His hair is gonna look awful. It comforts him to know that Snafu’s will grow out worse, though he’s sure the guy will find some way to make it look good against all odds. It’s kind of his thing. 

Eugene creeps back through the living room, his eyes adjusted enough to the darkness now that he can see Snafu, still asleep on the sofa. Moved, now, turned on his side with his face in the sofa cushions. That thing in Eugene’s throat is back. Stays with him long after he’s slipped into bed, eyes hot and aching in his face as he scrolls through news article after news article, as is his new normal since everything had gone to shit. He thinks of Snafu asleep on the sofa. He thinks of running out of food. He thinks of getting sick, his parents getting sick. He thinks of Snafu’s hand on his waist.

When he wakes, it takes him a moment to realise he’d fallen asleep in the first place. On his side, phone held limply in his hand. Screen black and silent. Hot underneath the covers as he hadn’t turned the heating off for the night. Eugene throws the covers back and then freezes, because with the knowledge that he had fallen asleep comes the knowledge that he had been woken — and by what?

The creep of feet on carpet. He bolts upwards in bed, just as a voice from the darkness goes, “I need you to feel my forehead, Gene.”

Eugene, squinting through the darkness, heart still racing in his chest, splutters, “You — I need to _what_?”

Snafu is silhouetted in the doorway, a just-slightly darker shadow against the deep blue light of the midnight-lit living room. Eugene sees his arm go up, and then, “I think I’m burnin’ up.” His voice is rough with sleep. Eugene rolls his eyes, and flops back into the mattress.

“You ain’t burnin’ up,” he tells the ceiling, as he senses Snafu creep closer. “You just fell asleep in that damn sweater and I forgot to turn the heat down.” Snafu’s always so creepily quiet, like a little cat. Soundless in the room, but Eugene can sense his presence bending the darkness. Yet he still jumps when he feels the bed dip, and Snafu’s voice comes from far closer now.

“I think I have a sore throat,” he murmurs, hand patting along the bedsheets until his fingers touch Eugene’s. “C’mon.”

Eugene yanks his hand away and sits back up, straining his eyes to try and see Snafu’s face. “You have a sore throat because you smoke weed literally all day,” he snaps, and then touches the back of his hand to Snafu’s forehead. It’s warm, almost as if he’s been sleeping in a wool sweater in a warm room. “You’re fine,” he says, and drops his hand. Snafu is silent. Eugene hangs his head, and takes a deep breath in. “You’re fine,” he says again, more gently. “And next time you convince yourself you’ve got the virus, don’t come get into my bed and make me touch your sick face, okay?”

“You’d get it anyway, eventually,” Snafu mumbles, sounding unconvinced. Eugene’s eyes have adjusted somewhat to the darkness now, and he can see the vague set of Snafu’s shoulders, the way he’s fidgeting with his hands in his lap. The room is still and quiet between them, nothing but the sound of silence and the tick of Eugene’s watch on his bedside table. 

“Go to bed,” Eugene says, softly. “Take the damn sweater off. Get some fuckin’ sleep.”

After a beat, Snafu sighs, and pushes his hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes catching the thin light through the blinds as he looks away towards the door. “Yeah, I’ll try.”

Eugene waits until he hears the click of Snafu’s bedroom door closing before he flops back into bed. Draws the covers up over his chest as he stares up at the slanted light on the ceiling, thrown through the gaps in his blinds as a car goes by. Straining his ears to hear anything, but of course it’s only silence. He and Snafu have bedrooms on opposite sides of the living room. Never before has that room seemed as big as it does now. 

The ceiling lights up again. Eugene rolls over onto his side, shoves his hand under the pillow and closes his eyes. 

Snafu has been keeping strange hours since Eugene met him. Even before he started dealing pot and the occasional bit of molly, Snafu could always be trusted to be awake at five a.m and every hour before it. The whole quarantine thing seemingly hasn’t done anything to change it, unlike how it’s changed Eugene’s sleeping patterns. Now Eugene rises at eight a.m and can barely make it through to nine without a nap. What is that, thirteen hours? Eugene doesn’t think Snafu’s slept thirteen hours yet this week. 

Maybe it’d be more concerning if Snafu did start sleeping more. Eugene knows he’s awake now, just as Eugene is. Knows he’s wide awake and probably manifesting every little symptom he can in himself so he can properly freak out about it in the morning when Eugene gets up. 

Eugene rolls over onto his other side. That touch of Snafu’s fingers to his own. How did he know just where to place his hand to find Eugene’s? Every trace of grogginess that he’d had when Snafu had first woken him is now gone. Eugene is fixated on the sureness of the touch, the lack of hesitation in its seeking. 

He lies awake for a long time, listening to the silence of the apartment, fist curled against his chest and eyes on the sky lightening past his blinds. When he does sleep, it’s light, and fitful, slipping between lucid thought and dreaming until both intertwine and become one. He dreams of joining Snafu in his bed, peeling back the covers with Snafu’s pale eyes following him like searchlights in the dark room. 

When he wakes, it’s to the smell of weed and burned toast, the sun slanting through the window to lay in stripes across his bed. Eugene stretches, and groans. In the kitchen, Snafu is whistling cheerily over the sound and smell of eggs and bacon spitting in the pan.

Eugene stays in bed for a time, listening. Day one, over. What on earth are the next few weeks going to hold?

————

Whatever the next few weeks may hold, the next few days hold a lot of oven pizza. Snafu and Eugene have taken to splitting one with a beer most nights while they work their way through Eugene’s extensive and at-times embarrassing To Watch list on Netflix. Right now they’re drifting comfortably through the second season of _Black Books_ , which Snafu hates but can’t seem to stop watching.

“They aren’t real, right?” he asks, cross-legged and working his way through Eugene’s abandoned pizza crusts, beer tucked between his thighs. Eugene glances at him, and then back at the TV.

“What, British people?” 

Snafu shrugs, but grins when Eugene cracks up, that private smile he always gets when he makes Eugene laugh. They’re lounging together, Eugene’s feet tucked under Snafu’s thighs while they eat, but once the plates are put aside they melt. His legs over Snafu’s lap, Snafu’s hand resting idly on Eugene’s knee as he drinks his beer. It’s been like this for a couple days. Not that they weren’t comfortable around each other before they got locked up together, but just never quite so regularly. Maybe it’s the fact that for all intents and purposes, they’re the only people that exist to each other right now. Maybe it’s because Eugene knows that deep down, Snafu is an inherently touchy person, and he’s using this whole lockdown as an excuse to get all the human touch he likes. Sometimes they watch TV together and Snafu will put his head in Eugene’s lap, his profile relaxed and unguarded by the flickering light of the TV in the dim room. And Eugene will wind his curls around his fingers, transfixed by the easy closeness just as much as he’s comforted by it. 

“What would you do if you could go outside right now?” Eugene asks him, resting his temple on the back of the sofa to watch Snafu deliberate. He purses his lips, tilts his head from side to side as he stares at the TV, turned down low so they can talk over it.

“I dunno,” he says. He takes a drink of his beer, and then shrugs. “Pretty comfortable here.”

Eugene laughs, but when Snafu doesn’t he frowns, and asks, “Really? You ain’t going stir crazy?”

The look that Snafu throws him is disparaging. “It’s been one week.” And at Eugene’s expression, he snorts, raises his hands. “What? I like stayin’ in. A smoke on the fire escape is all I need.”

Eugene shakes his head, turning back to the TV with a muttered, “You’re something else,” though he secretly wishes he had Snafu’s ability to stare at the same four walls and not care. Maybe it’s the pot, or maybe it’s because Snafu really does dislike 99% of people out there in the world. Come to think of it, he only really goes out to deal weed to teenagers and occasionally go to the movies or a bar. Eugene can’t imagine it; he’s going fucking crazy.

By day two he’d abandoned the pretence of working through his unread pile of books by his bed, and instead had taken to compulsively cooking. It’s why they’re on the oven pizza. Eugene has stuffed their freezer full of tupperware to last them probably the rest of their natural lives; the pizza is collateral to make space for it all. Even now, Snafu is getting up to help himself from the huge pan of brownies Eugene had made just to keep himself busy. By day four he’d jerked off so many times he didn’t even wanna do it anymore. By day five, he’d ordered a boxset of all twenty-one seasons of _Law & Order: Special Victims Unit_ from Amazon, and is now waiting anxiously for them to arrive. He’d cleaned every corner of the flat by day seven, bleached the tub, washed the curtains, turned his mattress — and the whole time, he knew he was about to run out of things to do but couldn’t stop himself.

And now, day ten. Trying not to look at the way Snafu’s sweater is riding up on his stomach. Trying not to look at Snafu’s hands as he picks the brownie apart to eat it, crumbs dropping in his lap. Eugene hopes he gets them on the sofa. It’ll take days to get chocolate out of cream cotton. 

Meanwhile Snafu, in that time, had: walked from his bedroom to the sofa. Walked from the sofa to the fridge, and back. Had just two showers. Had countless cigarettes both indoors and on the ledge of the fire escape that can only be accessed through his bedroom. Smoked a lot of weed. Eaten a lot of the food Eugene had told him not to. Napped. Sold weed to a kid who Snafu made wait under the fire escape to catch.

“How’d he pay for it?” Eugene had asked, and Snafu had looked at him like he was stupid.

“Venmo, duh.” He rolled his eyes. “Listen, I’m telling you, we as a society are goin’ cashless after this.”

Eugene guesses Snafu’s probably jerked off just as much as he has too. Not that he’s thinking about Snafu jerking off. 

Thinking about Snafu jerking off while he’s sitting right there is too dangerous of a thing to even consider. Sometimes Snafu takes the words right out of Eugene’s mouth like he’s reading his mind; Eugene can’t risk it to assume he can’t. No, instead he takes a mental scroll through the cleaning tips subreddit, search-phrase: ‘melted chocolate + white sofa’, and tries to imagine what kind of combo of weird cleaning chemicals he’ll be huffing tomorrow.

The TV show plays along in the background. Snafu finishes the brownie, and gets up for another one, which he breaks apart to share with Eugene.

“So what’s on the menu tomorrow?” he asks, eyes eerie in the dark room, the way they’re lit by the flickering TV light. Peering at Eugene as he drops more crumbs all over himself. Eugene hums, and tips his head back against the back of the sofa, considering.

“Dunno. Might try pasta, could make my own pesto.” He shrugs, and flicks his eyes to Snafu, who is looking considering too. “What d’you think?”

Snafu nods. “Sounds good.” There’s a few minutes of silence between them as they both watch the TV, Snafu quiet and rapt in that way he gets when he’s stoned. Eugene guesses he could watch grass grow and still be absorbed by it. Then he adds, “Y’know, I can cook.”

Eugene looks at him, tracing his profile in the sporadic light from the show. That soft, plush arch of his top lip, his sweet wedge of a nose. Eugene’s heart squeezes, and he murmurs, “Yeah, I know.” He has a vague idea of it; him and Snafu are normally on such opposite schedules he’s normally sleeping by the time Snafu makes dinner. But since the lockdown, Eugene’s hopped on Snafu’s messed up schedule as easy as anything. Only he hasn’t stopped cooking since that first night they’d brought groceries home, so he hasn’t really seen it. Snafu’s eyes slide to meet Eugene’s own, and if he’s surprised to find Eugene staring he doesn’t show it. His heavy-lidded eyes dip.

“Well, I could cook,” he offers, derailing Eugene’s thoughts. He shrugs. “Give you a break from it. You’ve been runnin’ ‘round the place like you got your head cut off.”

Eugene blinks at him. “I don’t mind it.” _I prefer it_ , he thinks. He’s never been good at being idle.

“Nah,” Snafu says, mind seemingly made up as he pops the last piece of brownie into his mouth and reaches to pat Eugene’s knee. “My pleasure.” 

“Honestly feel like I have,” Eugene mutters, looking down at his hands. The TV screen is dim now; Netflix asking if they’re still watching. Neither of them make a move for the remote. Snafu looks at him curiously, and Eugene realises he’s probably on another topic entirely, while Eugene languishes in his cooped-up craziness. “Runnin’ about with my head cut off.”

“Oh,” Snafu days, eyes darting away and then back. “Yeah, you have.”

Eugene snorts at the barefaced honesty of it. It’s another thing that Eugene’s spent this week getting used to. It occurs to him that Snafu and him have never hung out this much in years, probably. Not since Eugene got busy with class and work. It makes him feel melancholy to realise it; makes him feel bad he spent so long not noticing how much their time together had waned even though they were both living under the same roof. They used to be real tight, after Snafu got over his initial problem with Eugene and Eugene got over his initial suspiciousness with a newly-friendly Snafu. It was the reason they moved in together. It was the reason why they’re still living together. 

“So how do you not get like,” Eugene huffs. “Like, eaten up by all the news you watch and all the shit out there?” 

Snafu laughs. “I dunno,” he mutters, sitting up straighter to grab for his pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. “It’s been gettin’ easier the longer this goes on.”

“Sure looks like it,” Eugene says, but then remembers Snafu’s silhouette at the door of his bedroom, his unerring reach for Eugene’s hand in the dark. 

He shrugs, cigarette hanging unlit from his mouth as he glances up at Eugene, his face a mask of shadows in the dark room. “I’m a good actor,” he mutters around the smoke, and bares his teeth in some approximation of a grin. Then he jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Smoke?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Eugene sighs, glad for the shift in topic. Snafu grins, and Eugene rises up from the sofa to follow him through to his bedroom, to the fire escape through his window, clapping both hands on Snafu’s shoulders as he goes. 

Snafu’s room is always tidier than Eugene expects it to be. Which isn’t to say it’s very tidy, but there’s a sort of controlled chaos to the room that makes it feel deliberate. The stacks of books by his bed, the full ashtray on his desk, the windowsills choked with plants. The only clear one is the window that leads out onto their rickety metal fire escape, and Snafu lets Eugene go first before climbing out to join him, squashing close in the narrow space. 

Eugene sits. Snafu leans a hip against the railing to cup his hands around the end of his cigarette to light it. The metal step that Eugene is sat on is cold under his ass, but the air is fresh and cool and full of the smells of spring in the city, and he can see for miles. San Francisco all lit up through the dark; orange rectangles of lit windows and the blur of tail lights snaking up along the bay. Everyone either at home as stir crazy as him, or heading off somewhere they probably don’t want to be. Snafu offers Eugene a cigarette from his pack, and he takes one plus the lighter than follows. 

“You know,” he murmurs, rolling the flint over and over as he fights the flame alive against the slight breeze keeping it guttering out. “I don’t think I’ve ever appreciated fresh air so much.”

Snafu hums, smoke escaping his nostrils and clinging to his hair before getting lost to the night sky. “Smells like the sea, huh? Never noticed it before.”

Eugene grunts, and then gets his cigarette lit. “We’re lucky to have this,” he says, after he takes a draw through it. He gestures around them, to the fire escape, to the comfortable apartment, to the fridge and cupboards so stocked it’s been able to put up with his anxious cooking. “Don’t you think?” 

Snafu’s eyes are soft on him through the night. “I think you’re right,” he murmurs, and Eugene watches his profile as he turns to look at the city below them. Lit just barely by the lamp he’d left on in his bedroom, the light spilling out through the window and caressing his face like a familiar hand. Eugene feels that ache again. He’s been feeling it a lot, lately.

“Hey, Snaf,” he says, before he can chicken out. Snafu looks to him, eyebrows raised in question and big eyes very dark through the night. Eugene swallows. “I’m glad I stayed here.”

Snafu grins, that wide, teasing smile Eugene knows so well. Cocks his hip as he takes a drag from his cigarette, effortlessly charming without even meaning to be. “Yeah? Not mad you ain’t at home with your momma cookin’ you breakfast?”

“Got you cookin’ me dinner tomorrow night, don’t I?” Eugene counters with, and Snafu grins and says nothing. They both lapse into comfortable silence, enjoying the sounds of the quiet city below them, enjoying the cool night air. 

Then a siren rips through the night, which sobers Eugene somewhat, and Snafu murmurs, “Budge up,” as he levers himself down to wedge in next to Eugene on the step. 

Eugene cocks his wrist to keep the smoke from trailing into Snafu’s face, pressing his chin to his shoulder to look at him. Snafu raises his eyebrows at him, then looks away to flick the butt of his cigarette down into the street below. “What?” he asks, and Eugene sighs. 

“What d’you miss the most?” he asks, and Snafu snorts, eyes flicking up to meet Eugene’s with something reserved in them, like he expects to find Eugene’s joking. He’s not. When Snafu realises that, he hooks a finger in the railings and leans his head against them, eyes cast upwards, face a sweet mess of shadows. 

“It’s only been a week,” he murmurs, and when Eugene doesn’t reply Snafu’s eyes dip, and he says, “Okay, fine. I miss walking down to the pier and smokin’ on the beach.” He gestures, aimlessly. “Weather’s perfect for it. Seems a waste.”

“I miss that too,” Eugene murmurs, somber, which makes Snafu kiss his teeth and nudge at him with his shoulder, frowning. 

“Hey, c’mon.” He leans in close, close enough for Eugene to see the city lights reflecting back in his glassy insomniac eyes. His fingers pinch at Eugene’s chin, playful, shaking his face just so slightly until Eugene rolls his eyes and bats him away. Every place that Snafu is touching him feels warm. His jaw, his knee, his shoulder. Both of them pressed shoulder to ankle on this narrow metal step, San Francisco so unnaturally quiet and still around them that Eugene doesn’t know whether he likes it or not. Snafu digs another smoke from his pockets and lights it, taking the cigarette from his mouth in a cloud of smoke as he says, “You said you’re glad you stayed.”

“Hmm,” Eugene hums.

“So tell me what’s makin’ you glad.” He looks to Eugene again, the space between them so small it’s almost overwhelming. His eyes are bright. “Shit, the beach can wait. It’s not goin’ anywhere. So what’s good about now?”

He’s really trying. It’s very sweet. When Snafu gets focused on something it’s hard to get him to drop it; Eugene is floundering for a reply because being in the apartment feels so claustrophobic and it only gets worse as he thinks harder on it. His cigarette is burned so low he flicks it away without another draw on it. Jesus, his depressing online tutoring. Rattling around the same four rooms. There’s only one thing keeping him near-to-sane and it’s not the fucking cooking. 

He rests his head on Snafu’s shoulder. Covers his eyes with his hands. Under his touch, Eugene feels Snafu go still. “You know,” he murmurs, pressing his fingertips into his eyes. “I stayed because I thought you’d be a goddamn mess on your own.”

Snafu huffs. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Eugene swallows. “You’re doin’ better than me right now.”

“I don’t go out much in the first place,” Snafu reminds him, and Eugene smiles into the cover of his hand. The ache is back, like a toothache, gnawing at him. He doesn’t know what it means. 

“Well,” he sighs. “I guess the reason I’m glad I stayed is because of you.” Then a beat later, he hears how that sounds, and adds a hasty, “We don’t hang out like we used to.”

“Yeah,” Snafu’s voice is low, considering. “I guess not.”

Snafu smells like weed, like the laundry detergent they use; something warm and cottony that reminds Eugene of his own bed. He thinks of Snafu’s hand over his. Snafu’s voice in the dark. Snafu, asleep on the couch with his mouth open and the cold light of the TV making him look so young. Eugene squeezes his eyes shut, and moves so his nose is pressed into the scratchy knit of that sweater. 

They stay on the fire escape as Snafu finishes his cigarette, silent, listening to the world move around them. Eugene, feeling his heart thump in his chest, warm at the points where he and Snafu’s bodies meet.

————

“If I’m cookin’,” Snafu says, ridiculous in his underwear with an apron over his bare chest, curls held back from his face in a banana clip. “Then we’re drinkin’.”

Eugene has a rule with Snafu. He always has to at least put up the show of being the sensible one. Tonight it looks like this: “I feel like someone has to supervise.”

Snafu snorts, turned away as he coaxes at their finicky stovetop, nudging the ignitor to get the gas ring lit. It clicks away, endless. “Nobody has to supervise. Pass the lighter.”

Eugene digs a lighter from Snafu’s coat, and passes it to him, watching with a grimace as Snafu angles it close to the gas ring before whipping his hand away with a laugh as it lights. 

“Someone _should_ ,” Eugene insists. Snafu has his knuckle in his mouth, soothing at the burn the hob had treated him to. 

“It’s lockdown rules,” he retorts, and Eugene narrows his eyes. 

“Do I even wanna know what that means?”

Snafu grins wickedly at him, and Eugene is rolling his eyes before the words even leave his mouth, “No rules.”

Snafu puts Eugene on ‘cocktail’ duty as he sets to work chopping up what seems like a mountain of onions and mushrooms, crushing at garlic cloves with the flat of his knife and slipping it all into the pot waiting over the hard-won flame, chattering the whole time. This and that, shit he’s seen on TV, shit he saw on TV two months ago that he’s appreciating more now that he’s had time for it. Whether _Seinfeld_ really lives up to its hype and whether _X-Files_ got enough hype. 

“I think _X-Files_ was appropriately hyped,” Eugene mutters.

Snafu, not to be derailed, just pauses long enough to say, “Ain’t you s’posed to be on cocktails?” 

By cocktails, he means mismatched shot glasses full of that bottom shelf tequila he’d made Eugene buy on their so-called essential shop. Eugene grimaces his way through the first two, but everything after that is plain sailing. 

“What’re you even making?” he asks, after that pivotal third shot into his empty stomach. Snafu had practically barricaded the kitchen to make sure Eugene would be properly hungry for dinner. 

“Lasagne,” he says, offhand. Eugene groans.

“That takes like, four hours to cook.”

Snafu snorts, and takes the shot that Eugene had slipped onto his chopping board when he was stirring the pot. He grimaces, and when he speaks his voice is tight with that cheap liquor. “That’s what the tequila is for.”

They leave Eugene’s Spotify to play on shuffle as they cook; Eugene getting more and more pink-cheeked and giddy as the night goes on. Snafu too, judging by the dopey smile on his face as he nudges Eugene out of the kitchen, affectionate in his tipsiness as he shoos him away with a tap on his ass. Snafu’s a different creature when he’s drunk compared to when he’s stoned; Eugene thinks he prefers him much more, if he has to pick. Stoned Snafu is sleepy and glazed and faraway. Drunk Snafu makes him put on Carly Rae Jepsen and tells Eugene about all the stupid teenage exploits that he’s somehow never heard about.

“So the creek was _the_ hook-up spot,” he’s saying, flushed by the alcohol and by the cooking, hair curling even more than usual in the steam from the pans as he stirs at the beef. “But I didn’t have a car, so —” 

Eugene, leaned up against the refrigerator — the closest Snafu will allow him to the kitchen — can’t wipe the smile off his face. He thinks back to how he’d felt on the fire escape the night before, that ache in his chest like something was eating at him. It doesn’t exist right now, in this bright, warm kitchen, the tequila in his belly making him feel loose and unbothered. Snafu, flashing him a conspiratorial grin as he says something that Eugene is only barely listening to, as wrapped up in the moment as he feels. 

Again, that gladness that he stayed. It’s insane to think that Snafu’s the one keeping Eugene’s head on, and not the other way around. 

Once the lasagne makes it safely into the oven, Snafu coaxes Eugene back out onto the fire escape for a cigarette. Climbing through the window is harder with a few warm mouthfuls of tequila in his stomach, and Snafu stands behind him and laughs himself stupid as Eugene clambers clumsily through.

“I’d like to see you try better!” Eugene calls back into the warm rectangle of light, the window like a portal through to their apartment against the flat blackness of the brick wall. He settles back against the railings, watching as Snafu makes a much neater go at it than him. “You’ve done this before,” he notes. 

Snafu grins, taking a seat on the step and digging his cigarettes from the pocket of his apron. “Ain’t my first rodeo.”

He lights a cigarette and passes it to Eugene, who is just drunk enough to pretend he can taste the tequila on the filter when he puts it in his mouth. The night is cooler, that springtime chill to the air that always brings with it rain, in San Francisco. Eugene can smell it, that heavy, distinct smell of a city on the verge of a spring shower. He breathes in deep, filling his lungs with it, and catches Snafu smiling at him as he exhales. 

“What?”

Snafu shakes his head, hiding his smile with his cigarette as he glances away. “Nothin’,” he mutters. “Just you.”

Eugene grins. “What? What am I doin’?”

Snafu snorts, propping his chin on the heel of his hand to look up at Eugene, drowsy, heavy eyes pinning him in place. “You ain’t doin’ anythin’,” he murmurs, and the trees below murmur back at him, stirred by the steadily-picking-up wind. It tosses Snafu’s curls just the same, still held away from his face in that silly clip, and maybe it’s the tequila or maybe it’s the sullen half-darkness of the city, but Eugene feels captivated by him. The way his hair is pinned away from his face makes his features look sharper, more feline; the sweep of his cheekbones when he looks away, all those hard angles of him until Eugene trips his way down to Snafu’s mouth, and lingers there. That yielding, dark smear of a mouth in the dim light. Eugene sways. Watches Snafu stick his cigarette between the bars in the railings to ash into the street below. 

_Look at me_ , Eugene thinks, eyes pinned to Snafu’s face, to the wide softness of his eyes and his mouth against every other angular piece of him. _Look at me_.

A car goes by slowly under their feet, brake-lights washing the whole block in red light. It’s spitting; every so often a fleck of rain catches Eugene’s face. In a few minutes it’ll be raining in earnest. 

Snafu’s eyes find his, his cigarette finding its way to the street below as he frowns, and asks, “You okay?”

Eugene knows he must look stupid; he can feel it on his face but doesn’t know how to fix it. Four shots of tequila on an empty stomach. Is it a lot? Or is it just enough?

Snafu is standing now, and the little platform of the fire escape is barely a foot squared; he’s close enough for Eugene to smell. The tequila moves his hands, his feet, his arms, his face. In a heartbeat, the plasticky front of the apron is to his chest, and Eugene is kissing Snafu so deeply he’s not sure they had ever not been kissing. Kissing him like he’s hungry, which Eugene supposes he must be, but then that sensible little voice in his brain blurs to a flat hum as Snafu holds him: both hands to his face, secure, thumbs at his ears, and kisses him back. 

Eugene’s hand is on the bare skin of Snafu’s waist, clinging hold as Snafu crowds him against the low railing of the fire escape. His mouth tastes like tequila, like his cigarette — Eugene shouldn’t be so fucking turned on by it, but he keeps thinking of the soft pout of Snafu’s mouth now against his own, and dips further down into arousal with each reminder. Jesus, Snafu is holding onto him like he might lose him. Hand in the dark sureness. Kissing him like he wants to eat him. Kissing him like Eugene is something so precious he can’t even look at him. 

Eugene shivers, full-body. And Snafu steps away. 

As far away as he can go, anyway. Both of them still prisoner to that square foot of grated metal. And Snafu grins, like Eugene isn’t rapidly sinking further and further back into himself as the reality of what he’d done sinks in. 

“Huh,” he says. 

Eugene blurts, “I didn’t —” 

Snafu’s timer rings out from his pocket, a bright burble of sound. He pulls it out to turn it off, and before Eugene can manage to line up what he was going to say again, Snafu is grinning, and saying, “Gotta turn the lasagne.” 

Eugene feels a fat spot of rain hit his forehead as he watches Snafu scramble back through the window into his bedroom. Standing there dumbly as he tries to process what had just happened — what Snafu had just grinned at and then easily brushed aside. 

He fumbles his way back inside a minute later, once it becomes clear the rain has started for the evening. Snafu’s room is dark, and so is the hallway leading through to the living area; Eugene lingers there for a moment, watching Snafu bend down with his face in the oven as he coaxes the lasagne around. 

Who had kissed who? It was Eugene, right? The idea seizes him; freezes him to the spot in the dim corridor. Fucking tequila. Since when was he a guy who kissed friends?

“Done in twenty,” Snafu calls, and Eugene passes a hand over his face as he realises his weird lingering in the dark hadn’t gone unnoticed. He feels like he needs to say something, but can’t even begin to work out what he could say to make it right. _I’m sorry?_ But Snafu had given as good as he got. _It was a mistake._ But was it?

“Come here,” Snafu purrs, and Eugene is tugged into the kitchen like a fish on a hook. 

He kisses Eugene again, pressed back against the counter with the warmth of the oven under his fingertips. “How long’ve you been wanting to do that?” he asks, and Eugene has no answer for that at all so instead they do another shot and then another, and by the time dinner is ready and Snafu is handing him a huge steaming dish of it, Eugene has lost his appetite. 

Snafu too, judging by how he picks at the food. It’s a shame. It looks perfect, but Eugene’s brain is somewhere else, maybe even still out on the fire escape, so he can’t focus on it. 

The TV is playing in the background on mute. Eugene watches the characters move around silently, their mouths opening and closing, while he picks at his food. Snafu’s foot is pressed comfortably between his ankles; sat opposite him at the kitchen table. When Eugene meets his eye, Snafu smiles, a slow slide of something sly. He’s abandoned the apron. When Eugene kisses him again not ten minutes later, braced to the kitchen counter with their half-full bowls of food waiting to be wrapped up for the fridge, he traces his hand down every inch of Snafu’s bare side. Feeling his ribs, feeling the warmth of his skin, the dip of his waist, the light indents the ribbon of the apron had made there. 

He’s not sure who is initiating the kissing. Eugene is beginning to believe it’s some third party: the tequila, that fucking force drawing them together every single time they try to part. And each parting seems more of a pause to laugh and joke around and drink more, and before long the room is spinning and Eugene can’t feel his hands, but he knows they’re on Snafu’s ass just for how Snafu is nudging his nose at his neck and laughing about it. He’s hard against Eugene’s front, but Eugene can’t blame him for it. Eugene himself feels flushed and pink and wet between his legs, and now they’re on the sofa and the TV is still playing silently in the background, and Eugene’s knees are around Snafu’s waist as he kisses him slow and heavy.

———

Eugene wakes to a splitting headache the next morning; so bad that all he can do is cover his eyes with his forearm and groan, and go back to sleep. 

When he wakes for the second time, his headache is still raging but he feels less like he’d die if he sat up and tried to go about his day. Still, he stays in his bed for the better part of an hour, languishing in his headache and his nausea and the vague self pity he feels but can’t place an origin for. Reads enough of the news that it makes him depressed, but when he detaches from his phone for any length of time he’s forced to recall what fragments he can remember of last night, so he doesn’t know what’s worse.

He can hear Snafu moving around outside his bedroom; the pad of bare feet in the kitchen, the creak of the sofa, the sound of the TV. Eugene is not leaving his bed until he can come up with a way to fix whatever mess he’d made last night.

The sun is bright and painful in his bedroom; Eugene hadn’t bothered to close his blinds last night. Though he guesses it’s nothing short of a miracle that he’s waking up in his own bed at all. He remembers the scrape of stubble against his chin, the smell of Snafu’s throat. Shamefully, he masturbates, rubbing at his dick over his underwear until he cums silent and breathless with his teeth sunk into his lower lip. That seals the final nail into the coffin. He’s either gonna have to wait to die in this bed, or face the fact that last night’s tequila-fuelled making out was no idle show of boredom. 

The fake web article is penning itself in his head. _How the Coronavirus made me face my crush on my roommate head-on_. He’d probably be able to sell it with concerning ease. 

Is he already calling it a crush? He needs to shower the orgasm off himself before he can even think about the intricacies of that. 

Maybe it’d be easier to die in his bed. Eugene gives it some thought, staring up into the whorls of the ceiling as he wonders just how long it’d take for him to succumb to starvation. Then his hungover stomach thinks of the lasagne in the fridge, and his hungover mouth thinks of the full Brita sat cool and tempting right next to it, and Eugene levers himself up out of bed before both urges really sink their teeth in.

He still showers first, and manages to miss running into Snafu by sheer luck. He can smell cigarette smoke, which means he’s on the fire escape. Eugene spends a tight thirty minutes attempting to scrub both his hangover and his completely embarrassing orgasm from himself before he feels ready to face the day. And when he emerges, pink from the hot water and still headachy, it’s to Snafu making a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

Snafu looks up. The room rings with the sudden, awkward silence. Eugene knows he’s the one making it awkward; he’s not sure if Snafu has ever felt awkward about something in his life, and definitely doesn’t about last night’s decisions, judging by his expression. Open, playful, eyes dipped low somewhere around where Eugene’s shower flushed skin meets the white of his towel. He grips at it, and steadies the breath in his lungs.

“Hey,” he says, and Snafu’s eyes crinkle.

“Mornin’,” he purrs, looking pretty good considering the hit the tequila had taken from them both. Eugene can see it on the counter, looking far emptier than it had been this time yesterday. 

Snafu stirs milk into his coffee. Eugene grips tighter at the towel around his waist, and then blurts, “Snafu, about last night.”

“Yeah?” Snafu’s voice is lilting just towards curious. He doesn’t take his eyes off his coffee, which he’s now stirring sugar into. Eugene watches him for a second, bracing himself for what he’s about to say.

“I’m sorry,” he says, watching the side of Snafu’s face closely. “I hadn’t had anything to eat, and I’m a fuckin’ lightweight — the drink hit me funny.” He swallows. Snafu’s expression has smoothed out into something light, and neutral. “It was a mistake. I hope it ain’t anything that’ll make it awkward between us.” 

Snafu drops his teaspoon into the sink, and then turns to meet Eugene’s eye. He looks handsome, if sleepless; the dark rings under his eyes and the wild look his curls have belying their strange night. “Cool,” he murmurs, and smiles. “I was pretty drunk too. Not the first time tequila has done that, I’m sure.”

The way they’re both treating the alcohol like a third party to their antics. Eugene grimaces, and glances away, unsure whether he feels better about Snafu being unaffected by what happened or not. “Okay, good.”

Silence drops between them. Eugene uses the pause to shuffle back off into his room to dress, and when he emerges again for the siren-song of the cold lasagne, Snafu is gone and his bedroom door is closed tight, and the apartment is all the more quiet for his deliberate absence. 

The fact that Eugene can’t go outside to try and rinse his mind clean and figure out exactly where to go from here is another stab in the back. All he can do is rattle around their kitchen/living room, eat lasagne right from the tupperware, and consider pouring the rest of the tequila down the drain with an almost venomous resentment for it. Everything hurts. He hates his dismissal of last night just as much as he hates that he let it happen. They’ll probably keep being friends and definitely stay roommates, for as long as this lockdown lasts anyway. After that, who knows? Maybe Eugene has ruined this all beyond fixing and he should just live with that. 

Snafu emerges at sunset for food. Eugene watches him flick through channels for what feels like an age before he can muster the courage to ask, “Feelin’ hungover?”

“Not too bad,” Snafu murmurs, voice light. His eyes flick, so quick Eugene wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t watching too closely. “Not as bad as you, I bet.”

Eugene snorts, glancing away. “You’d be right about that.” And then they drop into silence, and Snafu settles on _The Great British Bake-Off_ as he smokes a bowl instead of touching the leftovers in his lap.

Four days pass before the ice between them breaks. 

It’s a Wednesday, which means shot-day, which means Eugene sitting clammy and nervous on the toilet seat for a good fifteen minutes before he can force himself to sink the needle into his stomach. He normally heads to the local Planned Parenthood for the friendly nurses there to stick him, but that’s obviously out of the question now. Now it’s just him and his phobia of his needles wrestling with his need for the hormones. Last week had gone okay. Snafu knows when his shot days are and generally tends to make himself over-helpful to the point of hovering, which Eugene has appreciated now that he’s taking matters — and needles — into his own hands. 

He’d sat on the edge of the tub and talked to Eugene about _Tiger King_ while Eugene sunk the needle into his belly fat, which had been a good distraction as any. Afterwards, he’d made Eugene a cup of coffee and made him sit down to watch _Spirited Away_ , and then a few days later Eugene had fucked it up and kissed him and then told him it was a mistake when it wasn’t even close to being one. 

What’s he scared of? Snafu had kissed him back. Maybe it’s the unknown. Maybe it’s the shift from friend to boyfriend. Jesus, is he already thinking boyfriend? Maybe it’s the question of whether Snafu even wanted it in the first place.

Right now though, he’s scared of the needle. 

Ever since he was eighteen and he’d had his first shot, Eugene has treated them like some scary but necessary thing. Eight years on hormones and he’s sure he’s seen all the changes he’s bound to see, so maybe it doesn’t hold the same gravity it had when he was a teenager and watching himself grow ever more masculine with every month that went by, but still it’s important. Helps him be himself, helps him look in the mirror and like what he sees. And he doesn’t like to miss a dose for the way it affects his mood, so here he finds himself, Snafu-less, sweaty-handed, alcohol wipe rapidly drying in his hand as he gathers the courage to even hold the needle. 

The bathroom fan hums into the silence. Eugene scrolls through Twitter just to delay the inevitable. 

There comes a knock at the bathroom door. Eugene tosses the useless alcohol wipe into the bathroom trash, and tries to pitch his voice as light as possible as he calls, “You can come in.”

Snafu doesn’t come in, just opens the door and lounges there like he’s been there the whole time. “Hey,” he says, and really it’s so ridiculous it’s almost enough to lift Eugene’s spirits. “Shot day.”

“Shot day,” Eugene echoes. And then, “You okay, Snaf?”

His expression wavers. “You don’t want company?”

Eugene’s always been a soft touch when it comes to Snafu. He sighs, and then gestures him closer, and Snafu slips inside and closes the door, takes his usual seat on the edge of the tub.

Silence rings between them. Eugene almost says something — what, he doesn’t know, guesses he’ll find it somewhere along the way — but Snafu beats him to it in that wordless, careful way he has. Reaches across Eugene’s bare thighs to snag a brand new alcohol wipe from Eugene’s box of supplies, and tears the packet open, elbows braced on his knees and eyes downcast like this is any other Wednesday. 

“I’ve been thinking that we should re-create an episode of the _Bake-Off_ ourselves,” he murmurs, shedding the wipe from the packet before handing it to Eugene, who takes it after a moment. “I think you’d win on baking but it’s worth a try.”

Eugene, after a beat of hesitation, swipes the wipe over his belly, over the jar of hormones, and says, “I can’t bake.”

“Neither can I,” Snafu says, hands knotted together between his knees as he watches Eugene press the needle into the bottle and draw the shot. “But if we’re both pretty bad then one of us has to be better than the other, right? It’s simple science.”

“I don’t know about that,” Eugene offers, just to keep the conversation going, pinching at his belly as he adds, “What would you make?”

Snafu is silent for a second. The needle hovers over Eugene’s belly. “Dunno whether I’d go big or keep it simple,” he says, after a beat. “Some of those bakers overshoot their own abilities, y’know? You gotta know yourself. Ain’t no use in doin’ somethin’ to impress the fuckin’ judges when you can’t pull it off, ‘cause that makes you look a dick in front of Mary Berry, and she’s not the person to be a dick in front of. Now Paul Hollywood? You know he’s always gonna be the biggest ass in the room, but —”

Teeth gritted, Eugene sinks the needle in. Snafu keeps chattering.

“ — Her? Man, I’d be more afraid of servin’ her up somethin’ shit than my own gramma. So maybe I’d stick to somethin’ I know I could do really well, somethin’ that could look as good as it tastes because you _know_ they hate when somethin’ looks amazin’ but tastes like shit.” 

Eugene discards the needle into the sink, and then breathes out slow, fingers rubbing at the part of his stomach he’d just injected into. He feels jittery and still clammy, but then Snafu’s hand squeezes at his knee and he relaxes just a little. 

“What’d you make?” Snafu asks, and he’s always like this. Not sure how long the distraction needs to last once the needle is out. Eugene huffs, and pats at his hand.

“Red velvet, make it look good and make it taste like shit.” He smiles at the eye-roll Snafu treats him to, and then adds, softly, “Thanks, Snaf.”

“What else am I here for?” he jokes, a weak smile tugging at his mouth now that the distraction is finished and Eugene is free to look at him once again. His hands curl in his lap. Eugene watches him, trying to think of what to say, and failing.

“I’m sorry,” he says, in the end, because Snafu looks about ready to bolt, and Eugene has a feeling that if he lets him they’ll never get this chance again. “I feel like I’ve ruined everything.”

Snafu’s eyes flick to his, and then away just as quickly. He looks wan in the bright bathroom light. Eugene wonders if he’s been sleeping. The bruise-purple shadows under his eyes tell a whole story that Eugene is very familiar with. 

“You haven’t ruined a thing,” he mutters. Cracks at his knuckles between his knees, nervous. They’re sitting so close that Eugene can see the freckles across the tops of his bare shoulders. “I thought —” he shakes his head. “It was my bad. I shoulda known you were too drunk.”

Eugene stares at him. Snafu is staring at the ground like a dog who’s been caught out doing something bad. “You —” he frowns, and nudges Snafu’s knee. “Snaf, I’m curious, what exactly do you think is happening here?”

Snafu looks up, confusion written across every inch of his face. “I kissed you, and you didn’t want to be kissed,” he says, like it’s so obvious. “It was a dickhead move. First I make you stay here, then I get you drunk and _kiss_ you?” He drops his head into his hands, and groans. Eugene, unable to help himself — because Snafu really does look pathetic and very very sorry — laughs. 

“I thought _you_ didn’t want to be kissed!” he cries, all the cold awkwardness between them melting in an instant as he realises the misunderstanding. Snafu has his head up again now, and groans again as he realises alongside Eugene. “Oh my god, Snafu.”

“I’m a dumbass,” he bemoans. Eugene shoves lightly at his shoulder. 

“Hey,” he says, gently, and then grins. “We’re both dumbasses.” 

Snafu rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling; something rueful and sweet that Eugene isn’t accustomed to. They share the silence of the bathroom for a heartbeat, the room so small that their knees are brushing, full of the hum of the lightbulb and Eugene’s nervous tapping of his fingers against the toilet lid.

Snafu glances down at his hands, and when he lifts his head his eyes are big, and soft. “Come here,” he murmurs, extending a hand into that barest inch of space between them. “Take another shot at it?”

Eugene lets his hand creep up to catch ahold of Snafu’s, smiling when he laughs and hangs his head, curling his fingers around Eugene’s in a quick squeeze. “You want me to kiss you?” Eugene asks, teasingly. “You sure?”

“Don’t make me change my mind,” Snafu murmurs, and goes easily when Eugene tugs him closer by the grip he has on his fingers. Kisses him softly, at first, just testing the waters as Snafu’s mouth quirks into a smile against his own. Then Snafu squeezes again at his fingers and Eugene lets himself be swayed by the silent command, shifting closer until his knees are between Snafu’s, kissing him gently, carefully. Snafu’s free hand comes up to cup Eugene’s jaw, and he melts into the touch, wonders if all this sweetness is here to make up for the freeze between them from the past few days. 

They part, and Eugene sways closer just to steal one more kiss, a long, deep one that has him feeling pink when he reels backward. Snafu is grinning at him from his seat on the side of the tub, eyes sleepy like he’s stoned but Eugene thinks maybe he’s just relaxed — maybe even happy. Suddenly shy, Eugene ducks his head, stares down at their knees nudged together. His and Snafu’s hands are still linked, and Eugene twists his wrist just to test Snafu’s hold. He clings on stubbornly.

“Kiss me again,” Snafu murmurs, voice low and honeyed. The drag of his accent coming out thicker now, like it does when he’s tired, when he’s stoned. Eugene glances up to try and gauge his expression, and feels his face pink up again at the lazy smile curling Snafu’s lips, the way his eyelids are dipped low as he says, “You hear me?”

Eugene wants to answer back, wants to tease him, but finds himself moving closer to kiss Snafu again instead. Like he’s being tugged by something bone-deep and wanting in his chest, and this kiss is slower, deeper, sending a slow coil of heat through Eugene as his hand comes up to sink into Snafu’s hair, to hold him in place. Snafu’s hand settles on his arm, laying his palm over Eugene’s bare bicep, drawing him in closer.

“You wanna take this somewhere else?” Snafu murmurs against Eugene’s mouth, and another bolt of heat sinks into Eugene’s stomach. 

Again, he wants to make some crack, wants to make a joke of it, but his vocal cords are seized. His dick is throbbing between his thighs. All Eugene manages is a croaky, “Lead the way,” and then they’re off, freed from the heavy sticky atmosphere of the bathroom. It feels weird to step into the main part of the flat, to see the sunlight coming in through the windows, the TV show that Snafu had obviously abandoned to distract Eugene playing on mute. Eugene’s knees feel like jelly as he follows Snafu into his bedroom, the window onto the fire escape open and letting in the sounds and smells of the rainy city. 

There must be some kind of deer-in-the-headlights expression on Eugene’s face, because Snafu frowns when he turns to look at him, and says, “Hey, we don’t gotta do anything.”

The room smells like the laundry detergent they share and like rain-wet concrete, like fresh air and Snafu’s hair. Eugene swallows, and shrugs, trying to sound casual as he says, “Let’s see where it goes.”

‘It’ turns out to be making out on Snafu’s unmade bed, Eugene propped up over Snafu as he kisses him deep and heated, wet between his legs and aching for something more. He doesn’t know how to ask for it. He doesn’t know if he should ask at all. In the four years he and Snafu have lived together, it’s not like Snafu has been shy about bringing people home to sleep with; Eugene’s woken up to some strange sleep rumpled girl or guy in the kitchen more times than he can count. But it’s always been something distant; they never talk about sex. Though Eugene’s beginning to realise just why he never had a particular want to hear about Snafu’s sex life.

Snafu’s knee presses between Eugene’s thighs, and he can’t keep in the noise he makes at the touch. Snafu huffs on a laugh, hand smoothing through Eugene’s hair as he pulls back a little, and murmurs, “You make me so hard.” His hand goes back to circle loosely around Eugene’s wrist, and Eugene shifts onto his elbow to let Snafu pull his hand down to where he’s hard in his underwear. Snafu hates wearing clothes inside. This is one of the few situations in which Eugene can see it coming in handy. “Fuck,” Snafu mouths out against Eugene’s throat, hand still at Eugene’s wrist as he presses his hips up into Eugene’s touch. 

“I think about this,” Eugene murmurs, distantly. He shakes Snafu’s hand off, and squeezes at him, his own dick aching between his legs. “When I jerk off, I always think about this.”

It’s true. Snafu spread out under him. Snafu’s mouth at his pulse as Eugene touches him just to hear him moan. Snafu’s dick is a thick, unassuming weight in his hand when he slips his fingers under the waistband of his underwear, and Snafu makes a noise like he’s been hurt as Eugene tugs at him. 

“You think about it?” Eugene asks, feeling dreamy as he pumps Snafu’s dick; uncut and wet at the head and filling his hand so perfect. 

Snafu manages a laugh, even as his legs are spreading and hips are tipping up into Eugene’s touch. “I think about a lot of things.”

“Yeah?” Eugene breathes, tearing his eyes away from the sight of his hand around Snafu’s dick to meet his gaze. Snafu’s teeth sink into his lower lip, brows dipped like it hurts, but Eugene knows better. “Tell me?”

Snafu huffs, eyes flicking down to his dick for a second before dragging up to meet Eugene’s once more. “Kiss me,” he says, and Eugene is helpless to do as he says, swaying closer to exchange a slow kiss that Snafu breaks, murmuring, “I think a lot about suckin’ your dick,” against Eugene’s lips. The jolt of arousal at his words is immediate, and Eugene moans as he feels his dick pulse. Their legs are tangled together; Snafu’s thigh pressed snugly between Eugene’s legs, perfect to grind down on as Snafu laughs and brings him in close for another kiss. “Cum in my hand thinkin’ about havin’ you on my face,” he adds, thumb pressed to the hollow behind Eugene’s ear, mouth opening on a moan as Eugene squeezes at the head of his dick. “Yeah, like that.”

“You wanna go down on me?” Eugene breathes, watching Snafu’s eyelids dip, dark lashes against his skin. His mouth is kiss-red, inviting, hanging open as Eugene tugs on his dick, curving into a smile at Eugene’s words. 

“Do you want me to?” he asks, fingers drawing through Eugene’s hair. The way they’re tangled up, every inch of their bodies pressed together, makes it hard for Eugene to read his expression. Snafu’s face is so close that it blurs out to shades of black and brown and playful green. Pupils blown wide. Eugene hadn’t expected him to be so gentle. 

“Yeah,” he stumbles on, “Yeah, fuck.” And Snafu grins like Eugene has given him the biggest and best gift anyone can. 

“Yeah?” His voice is low, and rough, hand dropping from Eugene’s face to curve at his waist, pushing up past the thin t-shirt he’s wearing to grip at his skin. Eugene laughs at his eagerness as Snafu pushes him onto his back, going easily, spreading his legs for Snafu to sit between. He puts a hand to the back of Eugene’s knee, fingers pressing into the soft skin there, and his eyes are dark and serious in his face as he leans close to kiss him, pressing his knee back in the same movement. Eugene sighs against his mouth, dick aching in his underwear, clutching at Snafu’s face as he presses his hips up against Eugene through their clothes. 

“You could fuck me just like this,” Eugene murmurs, hand to the nape of Snafu’s neck as he groans. His hips shift, grinding the hard line of himself lazily against where Eugene is hard and wet and wanting him, as though he can’t help himself. Eugene smiles, and kisses him again, nose nudged up against Snafu’s temple as he adds, “You’ve thought about that too, huh?” 

“You know I have.” Snafu’s fingers tighten in their grip at the back of Eugene’s knee, sliding up to his thigh, spreading him open even further. The roll of his hips is insistent now; Eugene presses his head back into the pillows, eyes closing at the feel of Snafu’s dick against his own. 

“Didn’t you say something about suckin’ my dick,” he murmurs to the ceiling, and Snafu snorts.

“Oh, like you aren’t into this?” He punctuates his words with pressing his dick up against Eugene’s hole. “You’re wet through your shorts.”

Eugene smiles at him, heart feeling huge in his chest as he closes his eyes, presses the crown of his head into the mattress at the affection bubbling up and over inside him. He laughs. “Wouldn’t it be nice to be wet on your face?” 

The suggestion is something that even Snafu can’t argue about, it seems. Eugene finds his legs released, and his boxers pulled down to his ankles before he can even take note of the absence of Snafu’s body up against his own. For a moment, he feels vulnerable; legs spread with Snafu settling comfortably onto his belly between them, eyes on Eugene with something distinctly hungry in them. But then Snafu touches his thigh, slides a hand around his hips to settle gently on his belly, and his thumb nudges up against Eugene’s hole, spreading it before he licks his way inside. 

Eugene swears, taken off-guard, hand coming down on reflex to curl in Snafu’s hair, to urge him further inside him. His tongue is hot and slick and insistent, unerring in the way he presses his mouth to Eugene, humming low in the back of his throat as he tastes him. Eugene forgets his shyness. He forgets anything that isn’t this; Snafu pulling back with his chin wet and eyes sleepy and pleased, ducking his head to take Eugene’s dick into his mouth to suck on him. 

“Fuck,” Eugene offers, indelicately. He tips his hips up into Snafu’s mouth, and groans when that hand across his belly holds him down and steady. “Jesus,” he adds, for lack of anything better to say, and Snafu’s eyes flick up to meet his own, curved in affection and amusement. 

It has Eugene drawing up embarrassingly fast into an orgasm, teeth sunk into his bottom lip as he shudders his way through it, Snafu’s tongue curling over his dick as it throbs in his mouth. He’s always been easy to make cum; seeing Snafu’s face down between his thighs was enough to get him halfway there, and the combination of his mouth and his fingertips teasing at Eugene’s hole was more than enough to tip him over the edge. 

And Snafu keeps going. 

Pulling back from his dick for a moment, mercifully, because Eugene is sure he’d have cried if Snafu had sucked him any further into overstimulation. Chin wet, eyes very bright as he touches the back of his hand to his mouth, eyes dipped as he eases his fingers into where Eugene is now soaked and more than ready to take him. 

Eugene groans at the pressure, at the stretch, head falling back into the pillows as he breathes out slow, covering his face with his hands. Figures Snafu would put that single-mindedness to use somewhere. Eugene feels wet and sensitive and flushed all over, nipples hard and brain comfortably fuzzy, but when Snafu props himself up to begin rocking his fingers inside Eugene, it’s like his whole self resets. Back to that embarrassingly desperate arousal, back to moans clinging to the back of his throat, half-dirty fragments of thought slipping from between his lips as Snafu grins and clutches at him and pumps his fingers so quick inside Eugene that he’s gushing hot down Snafu’s wrist before he can even register it. Snafu’s fingers pushed up right against that spot inside him that has him seeing sparks behind his screwed-up eyes. 

“ _Snafu_ ,” he gasps, toes curling at the bright rush of pleasure; mindless, twisting in the sheets as Snafu does it again. Eugene moans, loud and borderline-ridiculous but he doesn’t have any mind of his own to censor himself. “Jesus, fuck, _quit it_ ,” he groans, as Snafu does it again. He can feel the wet; slick on his thighs and his ass. God, on Snafu’s _sheets_. If it didn’t feel so good, he’d be embarrassed. 

Snafu quits it, but he’s grinning from ear to ear when he moves up the bed to kiss Eugene, to press against his side, hands skimming down Eugene’s sides just to make him shiver. “You liked that?” he asks, voice rough, as his hand drops down to cup Eugene between his legs, fingers just flirting with pushing inside him. “You wanna cum again?”

“What about you?” Eugene murmurs, nosing at Snafu’s jawline as he presses a kiss to his throat. Snafu is thrumming with a sort of loose-limbed energy that he’s never seen before; and it’s so attractive that he’s shuffling his hips forward onto his fingers, desperate for more. Above him, Snafu laughs, and his fingers move to rub against Eugene’s still-sensitive dick.

“I got mine already,” he says, not sounding shamefaced in the least. He presses a kiss to the shell of Eugene’s ear, to his cheek, sloppy to the corner of his mouth. “You were so hot. Came rubbin’ up on the mattress.”

Eugene laughs, fingers at Snafu’s jaw to hold him still long enough to kiss him. “What are you, sixteen?” 

He huffs a noise of amusement against Eugene’s throat, just as his fingers press back inside. “How ‘bout you cum on my fingers,” he murmurs. “That’ll round out the whole teenage experience.”

Snafu fucks Eugene close and deep, Eugene’s hand clutched at his nape as Snafu noses at his hair, whispers dirty little things in Eugene’s ear with a ghost of a smile in his voice. Eugene rubs at his dick, rocking hard between the press of his own fingers and the slide of Snafu’s until he cums with a moan, fingernails sinking into Snafu’s nape as he does so. Snafu, to his credit, doesn’t flinch; just works Eugene through it and kisses him all over his face afterwards, holding his jaw like he’s something so precious he can barely stand it. 

The rain has stopped. Snafu’s room smells like sex; the rushing sounds of cars in the wet street filling the silence as they flop next to each other on the bed to catch their breath. Snafu is half-heartedly hard again; Eugene kisses him until he’s fully hard and whining low in the back of his throat, then sucks his dick just to get his own back, swallowing down his cum and laughing when Snafu tackles him sleepily onto his back afterwards.

“Is this what I’ve been missing out on?” he asks, voice dragging with sleepiness. His eyes are heavy-lidded and sweet, glazed over and watching Eugene closely. “Jesus, a room away with a mouth like that.”

“It only took four years to figure out,” Eugene quips, and Snafu eases his hand over Eugene’s stomach, humming happily as he tucks his face down into the crook of his neck. Eugene brings his hand up to twist his fingers in Snafu’s curls, feeling lighter and happier than he has in a long time. “This ain’t a one-time thing, right?” he asks, halfway towards knowing the answer but wanting to make sure anyway. He’s always been the anxious sort. Snafu has always been the non-committal sort. 

“Think it’d be hard to make it that,” Snafu murmurs, and a smile quirks his mouth as Eugene smacks at his bicep. “Hey! C’mon, I wouldn’t have done anythin’ if I didn’t mean it, not with you.” He pinches Eugene’s cheek. Eugene settles back into his side with a hum.

After a while, Snafu gets up to fish his cigarettes off his desk, and together they share one; Snafu sat on the windowsill, Eugene with his elbows leaned up on it. The rain has started again. Outside San Francisco is grey and quiet; nothing but the rain-washed streets and the occasional car to interrupt it. 

“Think you’d be havin’ this good a time if you went home?” Snafu asks, tugging at a loose thread on his boxers as he gazes off into the rain. His cigarette smokes between this fingers; absently, he takes a drag from it. Eugene hums.

“Not as good of a time as I’m having here.” 

Snafu grins at him, then. Eyes bright in his face and throat peppered with the darkening blooms of love bites. Eugene hadn’t even realised he’d bit at him so much. “Yeah?”

Eugene rolls his eyes. “You just made me cum twice.” He drops his voice low. “You made me — you know.”

Snafu’s smile is wicked. “Squirt?” he supplies, and Eugene groans, and looks away, embarrassed. A moment later, Snafu’s hand smoothes over his nape, and he turns to find a gentle smile on his face, crinkling his eyes. “We’re gonna make this lockdown bearable,” he says. “I mean it.”

Eugene smiles back, and turns his face to kiss the first part of Snafu he can reach; the smooth skin of his inner forearm. His heart is swelling huge in his chest; happy and light for the first time in days. After their cigarettes, they fall together onto the couch to watch TV, switching over from the news as quickly as they land on it, eager for the distraction that comes with the _Bake Off_ , with Snafu’s hands scratching gently through Eugene’s hair. 

They sleep together in Eugene’s bed, that night, and Snafu must sleep all the way through because when Eugene wakes in the morning, he’s dead-asleep. On his back, the sunlight falling across his body light as a kiss. And Eugene’s heart beats up into his throat, and stays there, even as he leans over to kiss Snafu awake.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! stay inside! don't have sex with your roommates!


End file.
